


i say i want you inside me and you split me open with a knife

by Duckyboos



Series: i only come when you scream [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Dean Winchester, Death, Gun Violence, Guns, Gunshot Wounds, Knives, M/M, Murder, Murder Husbands, Robbery, Serial Killer Castiel, Serial Killer Dean Winchester, Serial Killers, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-27 02:22:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,591
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13871067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckyboos/pseuds/Duckyboos
Summary: Dean just can’t say no to Cas (except for that one time when he does).





	i say i want you inside me and you split me open with a knife

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, thank you to everyone commenting. Every time I get a lovely comment on one of these fics, I do a little happy dance. The only reason I've stopped replying is 'cause there are only so many ways I can say thank you for the kind words. Please be assured that they do make a difference.
> 
> Secondly, this series is not in chronological order, so it will flit between the past and future. This one is set in the past and hopefully explains some things, but raises questions about other things. I have a plan, I promise!
> 
> Thirdly, Please be aware of the tags when reading this story. 
> 
> Fourthly, this entry almost definitely needs editing (more so than the others), but I really wanted to get another story out for you all. So please ignore typos and grammatical errors for now. I will get around to sorting them out.

Dean’s pretty sure that whilst everyone loves a bad boy, most people are imagining a James-Dean-stroke-Johnny-Depp-in-Cry-Baby, rebel-without-a-cause-type, not a Mickey-Knox-serial-killer-stroke-mass-murderer. 

Eh.

Dean’s never done things the right way. He’s not about to start now.

Case in point.

“Far be it from me to criticize you Cas - I like my dick where it is - but do you not think that this is just a  _ tad _ batshit insane?”

Of course, batshit insanity is a speciality of theirs, but this is a new level of shenanigans that Cas has roped Dean into and he’s not quite sure how he’s gonna explain this shit to his brother from behind three feet of glass, with his feet and wrists bound.

Orange is definitely not the new black. Not for Dean’s complexion at any rate.

“Nope.” Castiel doesn’t bother looking at Dean as he delivers his eloquent reply, elbow balanced on the the open window, casually flipping the retainer on his shoulder holster. 

It honestly shouldn’t be as hot as it is.

Dean taps his fingers against the sun-warm leather of the steering wheel. “A good point well made, but still. I can't help but feel that kidnapping a senator’s wife and tying her up in the trunk of my car may not be the best way to express your distaste.”

A strongly worded letter should always be the first port of call.

Castiel finally turns to Dean, blinks, “Your car has the bigger trunk.”

Which is just the wrong thing to be focussing on in that sentence. “You're missing the point.” Deliberately, no doubt, ‘cause Cas is just in one of  _ those _ moods.

He’s back to looking out the open window again, “No, I'm not missing the point, I'm choosing not to acknowledge it.”

Called it.

They’re silent for a moment, Cas caught up in his revenge-laden thoughts, Dean carefully side-eying him. Then Dean says, “Do you you think Roman is missing his wife or is seeing this as an opportunity for peace and quiet? Are we accidentally doing him a favor here?”

A sharp-edged smile tugs at the corner of Castiel’s mouth. “Well, if someone kidnapped you, I’d probably send them a muffin basket.”

They both know it’s not true. Castiel is the most possessive bastard Dean’s ever had the pleasure of fucking, and there’s no way that Cas wouldn’t tear Hell itself apart in search of him if Dean ever had the audacity to die before him.

Because Dean’s in a magnanimous mood and Castiel’s angsty as fuck, Dean decides not to call him on it.

Instead he says, “Did you just compare us to a married couple? Have you been day-dreaming about us in matching tuxes and imagining a four-tiered cake with vanilla frosting?”

“Have  _ you _ ?” Castiel asks, but any bite that there may have been to his words is drastically diminished by the defensive way that he spits the words, like they’re a pair of bickering kindergarten kids and not two grown serial killers sitting in a car waiting to rob a senator’s illegal gambling ring, “And we’d have strawberry frosting anyway.”

Because of course they would. Ain’t nothing vanilla about them.

Dean waggles his eyebrows, more comical, less sexy, “Oooh, yeah Cas. Talk  _ frosting _ to me.”

“You know, you're not as funny as you seem to think you are.”

Which, just no. Dean’s hilarious.

Cas suddenly shifts on the bench seat, spine stiffening, as some dick (a  _ literal  _ Dick) in a suit leaves the nondescript building masquerading as a soup kitchen. (He’ll be on the TV later smarming about his good deeds).  He’s flanked by several armed bodyguards and whilst Castiel is pissed as fuck, he’s not suicidal, so they stay put, even though Dean can tell his trigger finger is itchy.

Dean’s is too, but for an entirely different reason.

Dick and his twenty million henchmen get into a shiny silver limo that isn’t anywhere near as nondescript as the building (practically screams impotence - no, wait,  _ importance _ ) and then they’re gone. Cas turns to Dean, blue eyes fevered and bright, right how they get before a kill, which has the knock-on effect of giving Dean the shivers all the way to his dick. “Are you with me?”

Stupid fucking question, really.

Dean doesn’t even miss a beat. “Of course.”

  
  


***

  
  


“I did say that this was a bad idea.” Dean points out, loading in another magazine, chambers a round. 

“No,” Dean can’t see his boyfriend, but he  _ can  _ hear the roll of his eyes in his tone. “I believe you said it was ‘batshit insane’. At no point did you say it was a  _ bad _ idea.” Castiel’s aim is eerily accurate and the security guard dies a painful death, hollow point ripping through flesh, blood spread out underneath his body in a gruesome rorschach.

Eh. Possibly not the best time to bring this up.

“Potay-to, potah-to.” Dean mutters instead, stepping over the guy, gargling on his own ichor. Shoots an ‘innocent bystander’ as he pokes his head out from behind some cherry wood panelling.

Headshot. 50 points. Fuck yeah.

“Nice.” Castiel acknowledges with a small nod as he moves over to a cashier, who’s holding her hands up, crocodile tear tracks already drying on her cheeks, “Maybe there’s hope for you yet.” The woman exhales shakily in quiet relief, causing Cas to correct himself with a dry laugh. “Oh no, not for you. I was talking to him.”

“Awh, come on Cas. Don’t go heaping too much praise on me. I might start to get an ego or something.” He keeps his gun trained on the other cashiers and croupiers as Cas gets the doomed cashier to give him the master key to Roman’s illegal takings. Once she’s handed it over, Cas drags the serrated blade of his knife across her throat. The body drops to the floor, blood spraying like a fountain, coating Castiel’s gray t-shirt and blue jeans.

And yeah, so Cas looks hot. With his shirt shiny black with blood, hair and eyes wild, chest heaving, he’s easily the most beautiful thing that Dean’s ever seen. But dammit. Dean likes that shirt and those pants and there’ll be no saving them. No laundromat is gonna accept the old ‘got into a fight’ excuse. Not even with Dean’s flirtatious ‘you should see the other guy’ line.

(It’s amazing how many people fall for that shit when it’s Dean saying it -- Or not. Dean’s hot, goddammit).

“Oh Christ. This is you without an ego?” Cas grinds out as he nudges the lifeless body out of his way of the safe. The same safe that they know through stolen blueprints is hidden under the gaudy carpet, fixed in the concrete of the dingy basement-cum-illegal-casino’s floor.

“I’m the most modest person I know.” Dean replies, completely deadpan, “Like, I’m the best at modesty. For real.”

It’s only through years of practice that he can say it with a straight face.

Wordlessly (though Dean can tell that he desperately wants respond with a witty rejoinder), Cas disappears from view behind the cashier’s counter and for several long moments all Dean hears is the tearing of carpet and the scraping of concrete.

Growing bored, Dean turns his attention to their captives. There’s a smattering of beautiful women - high-end escorts - in low-cut red dresses, cowering low near the tables, along with the chickenshit men who - up until five forty-five seconds ago had been pawing at them like they don’t have wives and kids at home - have managed to wedge themselves further under in a rather unchivalrous attempt at saving their own hides.

Which won’t do at all.

Just for shits and giggles, Dean fires off a shot under the nearest roulette table, sends a bullet into the flabby thigh of a middle-aged portly man. Who screams like a shitty actress in a B-movie.

Dude’s gonna need something a little stronger than viagra in order to get it up after tonight.

Not that it’s gonna be an issue anyways.

Some daring (stupid) soul in a red croupier vest stands up, and trembling with every inch of his being, stares down the barrel of Dean’s 12-gauge. “Just take the money and leave. What more do you want?”

Dean tilts his head, purses his lips, pretends to consider the question. “Hmm. If we answer anything other than world peace, are you gonna think less of us? ‘Cause I’d hate to think that we’re misrepresenting ourselves here.”

One of the whores lets out a helplessly loud sob. Red vest sits back down, shoulders slumped in defeat.

It was an admirable attempt, and under other circumstances, Dean would have been tempted to let him live. But the mission aims that Castiel had drilled into him (as he drilled  _ into _ him, heh) are not to be deviated from, and that means no survivors.

Roman has to learn his lesson, according to Cas and well, Dean’s just here for the ride. Mostly because he can’t say no to Castiel (in fairness, his brain hadn’t exactly been in his head when Cas had asked if he’d help out with a little vendetta) and partly because he’s just as sick as his boyfriend.

Ain't love grand?

“Any chance of you finding what you’re looking for this century, Cas? My arms are getting tired.”

If nothing else, he’s definitely acquiring a new respect for spree killers and bank robbers. Mickey and Mallory made this shit look easy.

“Just fucking kill them already.” Comes Cas’ muffled response. The tacked-on insult is spoken significantly quieter, but not so much so that Dean doesn’t catch it.

Asshole.

All Hell breaks loose after that, panicked screams and bodies running for the (barricaded) exits, and Dean grins his way through multiple reloads. This isn’t his usual scene; he’s more for the quality one-on-one time with his victims rather than this scattergun approach, but fuck if it ain’t a whole load of fun.

  
  


***

  
  


The heist-slash-massacre is of course kept out of the papers and Dean buries Roman’s wife when the douchebag (and seriously, he’d almost felt sorry for the poor woman as he watched the life and blood drain from her) refuses to disclose the papers Castiel had demanded in order to secure her release.

Later that night, as he’s straddling Cas’s lap, riding his dick, breath hacked into choppy pants, orgasm right there,  _ right fucking there _ , just under the surface of his skin, Castiel asks him another batshit insane question that he already knows Dean is going to say yes to.

They’re breathing the same air when Castiel says, “Marry me,” with words exhaled into clammy skin, adds, “Marry me, please Dean.”

Cas never says please.

It’s almost as if he thought that Dean might have even considered saying no.

  
  


***

  
  


To say that Dean had thought about his wedding day beyond a nebulous concept of wanting to get through the day so he could fuck the lucky man or woman, would be a lie. 

(Essentially, it’s not a high threshold of expectation).

Cas, overachiever that he is, orders a four-tiered wedding cake with  _ both  _ vanilla and strawberry frosting, which gets delivered to their hotel room (only the best for them on their wedding night) when they’re out tying the knot at the local courthouse.

Dean shows his appreciation by making sure that neither of them will ever be able to even so much as look at frosting again without getting a boner.

  
  


***

  
  


Still disgustingly sticky the next morning (maybe falling asleep wearing nothing but frosting and spit - oh, and one sock - hadn’t been the best idea), Dean turns on the news. Cas is in the shower (‘cause Dean’s a gentleman) and Roman’s on the TV.

Which in and of itself, isn’t unusual. What is, however, is a police composite of Cas’ segmented into the screen.

This cannot be good.

Dean fumbles for the remote and turns up the volume.

“-- My offices were ransacked last night--” the fucker is saying with the cringey level of smarm usually deployed by used car salesmen and lawyers, “--papers were burned--”

Oh fuck. Cas is gonna have a goddamn aneurysm.

“--kily I wasn’t there at the time, but this sketch is from the description my security guard gave to the police--”

Unless the security guard is a clairvoyant or Cas is a time-traveller there’s no reason for the sketch to be the fucking spitting image of Dean’s goddamn husband.

_ Husband _ . Holy shit.

He ignores the little thrill that shudders through him at the thought of him now being married to this infuriating fucker, and instead makes his way to the bathroom, hammering on the door with his fist. It’s unlocked, but Dean wants to at least give some warning before he goes storming in.

And Sammy’s always said that he has no manners.

There’s no response over the sound of running water so Dean goes in, shouldering the door open and stepping right into a cloud of steam.

Bastard better not be using all of the hot water.

“Cas.” Dean stands with his hands on his hips, probably not looking altogether as intimidating as he’d like, standing there in nothing but the sock that they didn’t quite manage to get off in their haste last night.

The shower curtain gets yanked back on the rail and Dean’s breath catches in his throat like it always does when he sees Cas. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, water drops thickening his eyelashes, rush of water sluicing over flawless tanned skin, and lithe muscles, down to the cut of his hip bones --

“Yes?” There’s an amused tilt to his mouth, like he knows exactly where he’s derailed Dean’s train of thought.

“You’re on the TV.”

Castiel squints at him. “I wasn’t that drunk last night, was I?” He tilts his head back under the spray for a long moment, drawing Dean’s attention to the long line of his neck, the bruises that Dean put there during their third go round in the early hours.

Fuck. So  _ not _ the time to be reliving one of the hottest sex sessions of his life.

Dean clears his throat, tries to focus on the matter in hand, rather than the ‘matter’ that he wants to be in  _ his  _ hand. “So drunk that you ransacked Roman’s office in between our bouts of confectionary-infused fucking?”

“Pretty sure I would have remembered driving a couple of states over and trashing that cunt’s office.” Castiel responds, voice dark and quietly intense, blue eyes roving over every inch of Dean’s skin. “The confectionary-infused fucking on the other hand? You may have to refresh my memory.”

Yeah, that’s super not helpful to Dean’s tenuous grip on his self-control.

“He has an e-fit that might as well have been sketched from a goddamn photo of you.” Dean manages to get out. Adds as an afterthought, “Probably was, in fact.”

Castiel’s expression shifts into something less likely to make Dean drop to his knees (only slightly), “...Shit.”

“Yeah.”

“ _ Shit _ .”

Dean one hundred percent agrees with the sentiment, but, “Can we maybe carry on this conversation when there isn’t strawberry-flavored sugar in my pubes?”

  
  


***

 

So. As it turns out, screwing with a dirty senator (no matter how fair the reasoning, and good old fashioned revenge is up there with the best of them) is a  _ supremely _ bad idea.

Clean senators (if such a thing actually exists) can come at you with the full force of the law, but dirty ones, well. They have far more resources and they’re willing to do whatever it takes to make sure that you stop breathing.

Roman is the latter of the two and he’s definitely not shy about making things difficult for whoever robbed him and shot his employees (of course, he’s not actually on every TV news channel in every state from Oregon to Florida talking about  _ that _ robbery, no he’s talking about the imaginary robbery of his office).

No mention of his dead wife either. That’ll be an interesting one to explain away when it becomes apparent that the poor woman is not actually somewhere warm and tropical and instead lying six feet under in some midwestern backwater, four miles south of the US’s biggest ball of twine.

  
  


***

 

It’s not until a few days after Dean and Cas’ wedding that Roman changes tack.

“--reports of another man at the scene, although a police sketch has yet to be released of the second offender, but--”

It’s clear what the message is and exactly who it’s intended for.

“Bastard.” Cas slams the remote down on the table so hard that the plastic cracks and the batteries make a break for it, rolling across the uneven surface and onto the carpeted floor. “I’m gonna rip his fucking spine out through his chest.”

Again.  _ Really  _ shouldn’t be so hot.

“Alright, calm down Sub-Zero,” Castiel shoots him a withering glare, but Dean carries on undeterred, “So what? They know about me.”

Question for the ages is,  _ how _ ? They killed every fucker in that place. They wiped out the cameras. They were careful.

Obviously not careful enough though. Which is one of many reasons that Dean usually steers clear of this kind of shit.

“Is your head just filled with ridiculous pop culture knowledge instead of common sense?” Castiel asks, clearly frustrated, and not in the way that Dean enjoys.

“Well yeah, apparently, because I’m married to a serial killer.” Dean says, flippant as usual, even though his heart feels like it’s being strangled by his intestines. “I, myself am a serial killer. Pretty sure either one of those things takes a heavy lapse in judgment. Both together? I’m probably certifiable.”

“Point.” Castiel concedes under his breath, though there’s a hint of amusement there. “So Roman’s gonna keep gunning for us. Both of us.”

“We can run.” Dean offers. Moving from state to state has certainly worked for him so far throughout his career. There’s a world of difference between killing hitchhikers and burying them in the woods versus whatever this is that they’ve stepped in, though.

Dean’s not too proud to admit that he’s way outside of his comfort zone here.

“Fuck.” Cas mutters, elbows on the table, hands in his hair. “No we can’t. Not indefinitely. We’ll be recognised eventually.”

“Surely, he’ll just give up?” Dean asks, hopeful that it’ll be that easy, but knowing that it won’t. “We’ll find somewhere to lay low.”

Castiel shakes his head. “What about when he releases the sketch of you and your brother recognises it?”

Well, shit.

Sammy’s pre-law at Stanford goddamn university. He inherited all the moral integrity that Dean’s sorely lacking and then some. He may not shop Dean immediately, but he’d certainly expect Dean to hand himself in after some ridiculous heart-to-heart. And fuck, if Roman knows what Dean looks like, how much does he actually know about Dean? Does he know about Sam?

Fuck, fuck fuck.

Castiel’s watching him as if he knows the thought process that Dean’s currently churning through, and it’s not quite as endearing as it usually is. Softly, he says, “Roman isn’t going to stop until we’re both behind bars. Unless--” He stops himself, looks across the table at Dean with an expression that instantly has Dean on his guard. “--I turn myself in. Make a deal. Keep you out of it. I’ll only do a few years for robbery--”

No.

“No.” Dean says immediately, almost breathless with it. “No, it’s not happening.” Castiel rises out of his seat and Dean mirrors the movement. “You are  _ not _ going to jail, Cas.”

Castiel spreads his arms wide, encompassing the near-empty motel room, “I’m looking around at all the other options we don’t have, Dean.”

“I fucking said no, alright!” Dean blurts, panic clawing up his throat, burning his lungs and no, no no no  _ no _ . His hands are in his hair before he realizes what he’s doing and he’s on the edge of something that he can’t quite see, every muscle in his body suddenly tight and his chest feels as though there’s a fucking ten-tonne weight on it. “ _ No _ .”

Devastating each other is what they do, what they’ve always done. But not like this, nothing like this.

Castiel moves towards him. It’s only one step, but it feels like everything and nothing that Dean wants. Instinctively, he takes a step back, jerking out of reach, and Castiel stops completely still, hurt etched across his beautiful features. “Dean, it’s the only way. Roman’s not going to stop. And I’m not letting you go down for this shit.”

“Yeah, well.” Dean mutters, barely able to form a coherent thought, let alone voice it. “You’re not going to jail. I’m serious Cas. You throw yourself off that fucking cliff, and I’m there right behind you.”

“Okay.” Castiel says eventually, hands raised in surrender. “Okay.”

Relief floods Dean, but then something occurs to him and a spear of icy panic pierces his heart. “Promise me.”

“Dean.”

“Cas.”

Castiel tilts his head back on a sigh. “I promise.”

  
  


***

  
  


Dean awakes the next morning to an empty bed.

After a panic-inducing few moments where Dean worries that Cas has been a stupid fucker and done the one thing he’d promised Dean he wouldn’t do, he finds a note hastily scrawled in Cas’ handwriting that confirms it. Next to the note that Dean immediately tears up in a fit of anger is the platinum wedding ring that Dean had slid onto his husband’s finger not seventy-two hours before.

Dean’s heartbroken, but not entirely surprised.

  
  


***

 

The marriage certificate arrives a few weeks later; the same day as the subpoena and Dean almost manages a smile. Almost.

_ Asshole.  _


End file.
